


These Spaces That Confine Us Do Not Define Us

by Novachester



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blasphemy, Demon Dean Winchester, Fingering, Frottage, M/M, Priest Castiel, Priest Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-27
Updated: 2014-03-27
Packaged: 2018-01-17 05:55:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1376353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Novachester/pseuds/Novachester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three years ago, father Castiel Novak met Dean Winchester, the physical manifestation of the forbidden fruit, and in the end  couldn't resist taking a bite. Now, retired from the priesthood and very much alone, Castiel finds himself tasting from that same fruit more and more, still wondering when the rot of it will set in and put an end to him once and for all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Spaces That Confine Us Do Not Define Us

“Evening, Padre.”  
  
Castiel’s hands remain steady as he closes his book, but his heart skips a beat, landing somewhere up in his throat. “Hello, Dean,” he says, weariness making the edges of his voice even rougher than usual. Regardless, his gaze is sharp when he looks up, taking a guilty moment to admire the beauty wrapped taunt around all of the darkness that Dean really is.  
  
Although, more and more, Castiel is forced to wonder what it is that “Dean really is.” If he was everything Castiel once thought him to be, surely the former-priest would be long dead and Dean would have moved on. “You know I’m not a priest anymore.”  
  
“Vestments or not, you’re still a holy man, Cas,” Dean replies conversationally, donning his usual Cheshire cat grin.  
  
There’s a song and dance to this that Castiel despises, the dreadful wait between each visit, and then the inevitable stalemate where they goad each other into making the first move; Castiel because of pride, and Dean because he likes to maintain the position of predator in this strange back and forth relationship.  
  
Tonight, Castiel doesn’t have the energy for it. He just wants to touch.  
  
“And you are a pestilence,” Castiel says without bite, but with familiarity, and drops his book to the side. He reaches out to snake his fingers through the loops of Dean’s jeans and tugs him forward, pressing a kiss just above Dean’s jeans, tongue sliding out to taste the exposed skin below Dean’s skewed t-shirt. He’s cinder warm, as though fresh from the fires, and tastes of ash.  
  
When Castiel chances a look up, the green of Dean’s eyes have been swallowed by darkness. He thinks he knows the feeling.  
  
“Someone’s in a mood,” Dean replies as he cups Castiel’s face, straddling him on the couch at the same time he kisses him. Dean’s taste is just as familiar as the rest of this, but still it manages to perplex Castiel every time. There’s no salt or musk of a human body, just the sense of something perpetually burning away.  
  
Sometimes it gives Castiel the hope that there’s still something left in Dean to burn, something the fires couldn’t destroy; something _light_.  
  
Other times he’s sure it’s all part of whatever game it is they’ve been playing the last three years.  
  
Castiel groans as Dean slips a hand down between them, cupping Castiel’s half-hard cock through his lounge pants. It’s always been embarrassingly easy for Dean to rile Cas up, to find the spots that make him feel as though he’s going to combust and then implode back in on himself in a wash of sensation, ranging from pleasure to pain to something Castiel can’t describe, something not of this world.  
  
“Stop teasing me,” Castiel growls against Dean’s lips, biting at the bottom one. Each time Castiel grinds forward, Dean lessens the pressure, eases his hand away. He feels so heavy atop Castiel, an entity that extends beyond flesh, but every time Castiel grinds forward in an attempt to relieve some of this damned pressure, Dean manages to turn himself weightless.  
  
Dean’s laughs softly, flattening his palm high on Castiel’s chest and pinning him back to the couch. “The teasing is the best part,” he says, although he seems to put some kind of stock in the irritated stare Castiel responds with, because he doesn’t waste much more time undoing his belt, tossing it somewhere to the side.  
  
Castiel takes over from there, practically ripping Dean’s jeans open. Dean readily reciprocates, pushing the waist band of Cas’s pants down far enough that his cock bobs free, thick and hard when Dean curls his hand around it, drawing a ragged breath from Cas.  
  
It only gets worse when Dean rolls his hips forward, grinds the wet head of his cock along Castiel’s shaft before he catches both in one hand, squeezing them together and fucking into the tunnel of his hand. Castiel hisses his pleasure through clenched teeth, grabbing and pushing at Dean’s arms, like he can’t decide if he wants to banish him or draw him forward until they’re closer, too close, their bodies as entwined as their fates.  
  
He settles on closer.  
  
Castiel abandons his hold on Dean’s arm and wraps his hand instead around their cocks, long fingers tightening over top of Dean’s, forcing them tighter as he too begins to rock up into the grasp. “Harder,” Cas moans, trying to urge Dean to move faster, to give him anything more than this steady, intimate slide of skin against skin.  
  
“Relax, father,” Dean purrs, pressing soft kisses along Castiel’s throat. “I got this.”  
  
It’s a mystery to Castiel why Dean continues to call him that, if it’s just mockery or if there’s something more to it. Sometimes he wonders if Dean is refusing to let Castiel forget the grace he fell from for a specific purpose, or if he’s just figured out that’s the knife that twists deepest. Castiel stifles a groan by biting onto the juncture of Dean’s shoulder, let’s his teeth sink in _hard._  
  
Dean offers a feral grin, swiping his thumb over the head of Castiel’s cock. “Desperate today, aren’t’cha? Fuck, s’been awhile,” Dean says, and Castiel prepares himself for the litany of filth to come next, his chest constricting with anticipation that he pretends is dread.   
  
“You ever think about letting me in, padre?” Dean asks, nipping at the shell of his ear. Castiel’s heart thuds almost painfully because _yes,_ he has. More than thought about it, he’s done it, had Dean inside him as much as he’s taken pleasure in Dean’s sweltering body. Dean chuckles. “Nah, I mean _really_ in, black smoke and all.”  
  
Castiel startles, nails digging into the meat of Dean’s arm. Before he can speak to it one way or another, Dean steals his breath by sliding a hand down his back, middle finger following the crease of his ass. “Could make it good for you, fill you up and stain you, inside and out. You’d never forget I was there,” Dean murmurs, pressing his finger against Cas’s hole, rubbing back and forth. His finger is slick, though with what, Cas doesn’t know. He’s learned to stop questioning what Dean can and can’t do.  
  
When Dean kisses him again, Castiel almost chokes on the taste: sulfur, sharp and overwhelming. He can feel tendrils of warmth snaking from Dean’s mouth and over his cheeks, doesn’t have to open his eyes to know there’s smoke wafting along his skin. He breathes it in deep, craves that warmth to the very core of him.   
  
“Dean,” Castiel gasps, bucking up against him as their cocks continue rubbing together, precome helping to ease the slip slide of them. He frantically tries to force Dean’s hand tighter beneath his, to give him that extra shove he needs, but Dean remains infuriatingly gentle.   
  
“You’d open up for me, know you would. You always do,” Dean murmurs, catching Castiel’s breath with a kiss as he presses his finger in with one slick push, Castiel’s body stretching to accommodate the intrusion. Cas moans, arching his back, unsure if he wants to press forward into Dean’s hand or back onto his finger. He settles for both, grinding back and forth as best he can, though Dean gives him little space between his body and the couch. “I’d fill every empty space you have. You wouldn’t know where I ended and you started.”  
  
Castiel would like to say there was a time he didn’t enjoy this, this throbbing heat that licks through his body like true sin, but the truth is that there never has been. There was never any coercion, even when his faith had been at its peak. There was just Dean, hovering at the edges of Castiel’s peripheral, singing his siren song until finally Castiel had succumb to it, begged for it, _taken_ it.

This is no different.  
  
“Please,” Castiel moans, clutching Dean’s hips, biting his dull nails into warm flesh. “Stop talking and _do it._ ”  
  
“Bossy,” Dean accuses, amused. A second finger pressing in has Castiel groaning, arching his back and digging his nails desperately into Dean’s skin. “That’s it, padre. Go on. Show me how bad you want it.”  
  
Castiel whines, throwing his head back and grinding _hard_ onto Dean’s fingers, angling his hips until he manages to— _oh!_  
  
“Dean, oh God, forgive me, I’m—“  
  
Castiel’s entire body goes rigid as he comes into the narrow spaces between them, the two of them both spilling over and staining Castiel’s sweater. Dean all but collapses against him, breathing hot and heavy into the crook of Castiel’s neck, and the weight of him is a strange kind of comfort that Castiel can’t bring himself to think too heavily on. He wraps his arms around Dean’s torso and squeezes him, deciding to forget a little while longer all the rules that say he shouldn’t.  
  
Still, like the afterglow of his orgasm, the self-deception can only last so long. Dean’s kissing lightly at his neck when Castiel grunts, “Get off me, you’re too heavy.”  
  
“Shut up,” Dean says, lips quirked, but he does rise up, balancing himself on his knees over Castiel, who misses the weight instantly. “You love me,” he teases, and Castiel desperately wishes that he hadn’t.  
  
Looking slowly to Dean, his eyes half-closed and tired, Castiel says, “Sometimes I fear I might,” and Dean’s expression falters. They stay like that for a long while, silent and unsure. Castiel doesn’t know what exactly it is that goes on inside Dean’s mind, and maybe he never will, but he catches brief glimpses of it in moments like this, and what he sees in Dean is so eerily like what he often sees in the mirror each morning.  
  
Dean doesn’t seem to know why they do this anymore than Castiel does.  
  
Wordlessly, Castiel lies down and Dean follows him, covering the man’s body with his own and blanketing him in that infernal heat. Castiel used to feel he was incinerating under this warmth, but more and more he’s realizing none of those fires had ever belonged to Dean. All Dean did was stoke them.  
  
They fall asleep like that, or at least Castiel does. He’s still not entirely sure if Dean really sleeps, or if he’s just very good at pretending to. Either way, when Castiel wakes up from a dark and dreamless sleep, he’s cold and alone in the early light of dawn.  
  
Unfazed, Castiel retrieves his discarded book from the ground, readjusts his couch cushions and heads into the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee, methodically beginning his morning chores as per usual. He brushes his teeth last, the taste of ashes fading to a dull mint.  
  
 _Until next time, Dean._

**Author's Note:**

> aahhh this is kind of a mess and I know it feels more like the middle of a fic than the beginning or end, but it's something I wrote 4 months ago and was just recently inspired to finish. regardless, thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed it. ;u;


End file.
